Hanging out.

Those two words, that action, was something that Ghost himself rarely got. All throughout his childhood, and slipping into his adult years, he didn’t have anyone to hang out with.

And when he joined the military, he worked alongside people that he now saw as brothers and sisters. They would all organise going to the local bar, once in a while, to celebrate their success of a big mission or just to unwind. So far, it was good. He got used to the routine, knowing the time frames and where to be. Whenever he was at the bar, with or without comrades, he wouldn’t talk as much as the others. He would find himself making a quip every so often, but never leading conversations or being in the limelight.

Then you came along. You joined the military, bright and uplifting. Quite literally. As you got closer to your team, your optimism and determination seemed to cause an increase in soldiers’ moods. Ghost wasn’t used to this. But you…you seemed like the spontaneous type. The one to just..go out and have fun. And he wasn’t familiar with it. It’s not that he hated it, but it was foreign territory.

And you’d surprised him when you sent him a text, asking to come hang out at a burger place a few blocks down from his usual pub. Just you two. He was intrigued, but also…scared? Anxious? He didn’t know. It was all a jumble of emotions. He accepted your invitation. On the day of meeting up, he even surprised himself once he woke up early. Funnily enough, it wasn’t scheduled until the evening, at 1700 hours. He was nervous. He spent all morning choosing what to wear, maybe even what questions to start a conversation or what to order.

Then you two met up. You assured him it was going to be okay, as if you could read his thoughts. You two sat down at a booth, ordering food. When his burgers arrived, he lifted his balaclava up to rest just above his nose, and he took a bite when he realised they had pickles on them.

“They got pickles on them.” He began, his voice a low grunt as he glanced your way.

“They do.” You replied, your tone light.

“What if I don’t like pickles?” He asked, his eyes flicking back to his burger.

“Just tell ‘em not to put ‘em.” You shrug gently, your advice a simple solution that he was unfamiliar with.

“I’ve already placed my order.” He responded.

“Mine don’t have pickles. Let’s trade.” You offer him a small smile, one of comfort and a promise that he could let his guard down around you.

“You would do this for me?” He muttered, setting his burger down as he looked back at you. His suspicion was bubbling beneath the service. How could someone be this nice to him?

“Absolutely.” You nodded firmly.

There was silence for a few beats, before he sat up straighter, leaning over towards you.

“You have enemies that need taken care of, you come to me.” He told you. It wasn’t a suggestion. Wasn’t even an offer. You will come to him.

He was rarely treated with kindness, and when you showed him such generosity, he felt the need to repay it back to you in the form of protection. He’d protect you, as it was his own way of thanking you.